


Grins

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 15:04:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6199678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elrond finds Lindir loveliest when he laughs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grins

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Elrond notices how stressed out Lindir is all the time and did his best to make him laugh as often as possible (and if he kinda falls in love with the sound of it and the source of us, well who can blame himhim XD)” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/14338.html?thread=25855490#t25855490).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

For all their time together, Elrond doesn’t hear, or at least doesn’t notice, Lindir’s laugh until it happens right before him. They stroll through the gardens like any other night, Lindir tightly reciting the day’s report and Elrond politely responding here and there. Their discussion is just the two of them. Then Glorfindel stumbles across their path, all his long, fair hair gathered into three points on top of his head, trailing down like the tails of horses. When he glances at them, the moonlight washes over his face, highlighting smudged, garish red lips, pink-painted cheeks, and uneven patches of charcoal circling his eyes. 

He looks at them in horror for one quiet moment, frozen in place, and then his cheeks turn darker under the faux-blush, and he blurts, “Forgive my appearance, my lord. I fear I have incurred the lady Arwen’s wrath, and I made the mistake of sleeping too near to her favourite gardens.”

Elrond, knowing his daughter’s odd sense of humour all too well, merely lifts an eyebrow and says nothing. He hears a muffled noise at his side, follows it, and has the good fortune to catch Lindir bursting. His face is scrunched together in mirth, cheeks dimpled and eyes squinted, alight and glinting, and he releases one loud, glorious laugh before hurriedly covering his mouth with both hands. Immediately falling into a full-bodied bow, he barely manages to exclaim, “My sincerest apologies!” around continued gleeful noises. Then he turns and all but bolts, leaving Elrond, for the first time, without so much as a look.

Glorfindel sighs, resigned. Shaking his head, he swiftly walks away, likely to wash his face and fix his hair. Elrond stays where he is a few minutes more, puzzling after what he just saw and heard. He’s noticed his young attendant’s attractiveness many times before, but never so vividly. It makes him wonder how he’s missed such bright displays before, and thus can’t help but wonder how to elicit such a reaction again. 

But Elrond, unfortunately, has never been very good at jokes. He considers his humour better than many elves of his stature, yet each time in the following days he catches a moment with Lindir alone, he can’t seem to think of anything _funny_ to say. He can recall various jokes his sons have made over the years and curious trouble Arwen’s caused, but none seem replicable. Even with him looking for it, he finds no more luck with other elves causing Lindir such amusement again. By the next day, Glorfindel is as graceful as ever, and Elrond can’t bring himself to ask Arwen to pull a similar stunt on anyone else. 

Once, when they part from a walk and Lindir announces he’ll be overseeing the latest shipment of goods from the Woodland Realm that afternoon, Elrond nods and tells him, “Have an El _fun_ time.”

Lindir merely looks at him, confused, halting in place. Elrond had meant to drop the comment and make a swift exit. But his poor delivery forces him to remain, and against his better judgment, he explains, “I am aware your time will be spent entirely amongst elves; I merely wished to incorporate the hope that you enjoy yourself in the statement.”

Lindir’s chest twitches, a restrained snort held somewhere in his throat, but his lips only flicker into a smile for a millisecond. He’s completely composed an instant later, leaving Elrond to wonder if the reaction was for his terrible joke or _at_ his failure to properly make one. Either way, it’s only a fraction of what he wanted. Lindir answers tightly, “Thank you, my lord,” and leaves.

Elrond wanders in the other direction, wondering how in the world he came up with so poor a pun and why he allowed himself to blurt it out. He spends the rest of the walk to his quarters contemplating better plays on words and ultimately coming up with nothing. The only surefire he has is ridiculous attire, but as desirable as Lindir’s laugh is, it isn’t _quite_ worth utterly ruining his reputation and possibly losing Lindir’s respect. He’ll have to think harder.

But days pass, and he thinks of nothing. It’s a lovely spring season, calm and relatively peaceful, and Elrond finds himself spending more and more time covertly staring at the beautiful elf so often by his side. Elrond’s been through so many years that he never expected to find something new and so invigorating this late in his life. He craves more of it. Eventually, he decides he’ll have to try his last-resort idea. He tells himself it isn’t just for him. Despite the ease with which Imladris runs, Lindir is wound very tightly, very seriously, and Elrond decides that Lindir is far too young to be so somber.

So Elrond purposely diverts them from the walkway during one of Lindir’s daily reports. Elrond subtly directs them into the sweeping halls of their home, along the lower corridors, and down to Lindir’s own quarters, where Lindir finally stops his speech to ask curiously, “My lord...?”

One hand already drifting to the door’s handle, Elrond returns, “May I?”

Lindir, of course, nods his head, and his cheeks take on the same quiet flush they do whenever Elrond takes the slightest interest in him. Elrond opens the door to neat, sparsely decorated quarters of moderate size, with the mid-afternoon light washing warmly in through the open pillars. Lindir steps inside, and Elrond closes the door behind him, then debates where to perch. The bed is the largest piece of furniture in the room, but as fascinated with Lindir as Elrond’s swiftly become, he doesn’t mean to intrude to that level before he’s sure of Lindir’s comfort. Instead, he heads for one of the wicker chairs before the porch. Lindir follows.

Taking a careful seat, Elrond rearranges his robes and thinks, once again, over his case. His pretense is parchment-thin. He still manages a steady voice when he announces, “I believe I have located a soreness in one of my subjects, and I feel it is my duty as a healer to alleviate this burden.”

Though two other light chairs face Elrond, Lindir remains standing right next to Elrond’s knees. He tilts his head, eyebrows knitting cutely together, and asks, “My lord?” Obviously, he doesn’t follow that Elrond means _him_.

After a pause, Elrond must clarify, “I speak of you, Lindir. I have observed you closely of late, and though we are fortunate to be in very peaceful times, it seems to me that you are still inordinately fraught with stress.”

Lindir’s eyes widen around the edges, becoming impossibly bigger. He opens his mouth, and at first, Elrond things he will apologize—his usual response to any perceived failure. But then he swiftly closes it, looks aside, bows his head and murmurs, “I... I am quite fit for duty, my lord. But of course, I will submit myself to whatever you think is best...” Elrond barely manages to suppress the shiver Lindir’s peculiar wording wants to send up his spine. Lindir is often entirely _too_ submissive to Elrond’s wishes. 

In this case, it’s a lucky circumstance—Elrond could elaborate no better. He accepts the permission to proceed and steels himself for something he hasn’t done since the twins were very little. It’s hardly a dignified action for a lord, but they’re behind closed doors, and he’s determined that the reward will likely be worth the risk.

He reaches out and slides his hands deftly over Lindir’s sides. Lindir’s breath hitches, posture straightening. Elrond strokes lightly up from Lindir’s hips, watching Lindir’s hung face carefully, and waits until he finds the telltale twitch he’s looking for. Just above where Lindir’s elbows fall, arms loose at his sides, Elrond curls in his fingers and presses into Lindir’s flesh. He digs right through the robes, scrunches his fingers together, and expands them again, rapidly poking and scratching Lindir in erratic directions.

Lindir’s head shoots up. He lasts approximately half a second, then snorts, then nearly doubles over, squirming, but Elrond, assured it’s working, leans forward and maintains his grip on Lindir’s sides. He pulls Lindir closer, mercilessly tickling his defenseless assistant while Lindir shivers in his grasp and finally comes undone. 

Lindir’s laugh is as sudden, loud, and overwhelming as it was the first time. It takes over his entire face, creeping down the length of his body, the noises spilling out in droves while his hands alternatively try to hide his broken expression and attempt to shield his sides from Elrond’s assault. Elrond doesn’t let up. He goes on and on, mesmerized, as each wrack of Lindir’s trim body takes him further over the edge. 

In minutes, there’s water at the corner of his eyes. He tries to wipe it away, his cheeks red, but that leaves his sides free for Elrond to do his worse. Poor Lindir just barely gulps, “My lord!” around his ruckus laughter. Elrond continues his ministrations. Lindir gasps, “My lord, please! Mercy!” But Elrond couldn’t stop if he wanted to—he’s never seen such pure _joy_ in all his life. Lindir’s tremours are the pinnacle of beauty, his gulping voice the greatest song. Elrond continues to tickle him and Lindir continues to beg until his legs give out, and he suddenly topples straight to the floor, out of Elrond’s grasp, clutching his chest and rasping for air around his uncontrollable laughter. Thin trails of tears stream from his eyes, his skin a ripe pink. Elrond realizes with a start that he’s made himself breathless. He can do nothing but watch Lindir, curled at his feet, crying and giggling. 

It takes several minutes and deep breaths for Lindir to steady himself, but he mutters before that, “I am sorry—I am so sorry, my lord...” Even when he’s thoroughly wiped his cheeks on his sleeves, the evidence of his ruin is obvious. As soon as he has some semblance of stability, he covers his face with his hands and repeats, “I am sorry—”

“Please do not be,” Elrond insists, reaching down to try and tug Lindir’s wrists free. “That was exactly the response I was hoping for.” Lowering his hands, Lindir looks up in surprise, and Elrond, fighting his own embarrassed reaction, forces himself to be honest. “I admit I have become somewhat... smitten... with the sound of your laughter. Imladris is a far more enjoyable place when the one who works the hardest for it enjoys himself.”

Turning even redder, Lindir just repeats quietly, “...Smitten?”

A poor choice of words—it gave away too much, but Elrond doesn’t correct himself. The fact that Lindir remains on his knees, flushed and breathing hard, does nothing to alleviate Elrond’s interest.

After a minute, Lindir slowly mutters, “I admit, I... I have always tried to present myself professionally before you... I had thought such antics would be unworthy of a great lord...”

Lifting an eyebrow, Elrond asks, “Is that what you think of me? That I am too highly regarded to see those closest to me happy?”

Wearing a mingled look of embarrassment and guilt, Lindir murmurs, “I am always happy to be with you, my lord.” And Elrond, in a way, always knew that. 

He still says, “I enjoying seeing it displayed.”

Lindir responds, “Then I will endeavor to be lighter.”

In deference to that, Elrond teases, “Good. Then I will not be forced to administer follow up treatments.”

Looking simultaneously horrified and amused again, Lindir struggles with a broad smile. As if to escape Elrond’s cruel reach, Lindir rises unsteadily back to his feet and takes one step back. There, he bows at the waist and recites, “While I will still eagerly submit myself to my lord’s other attentions any time he deems fit, I promise such drastic measures as this particular treatment will not be necessary in the future.”

Rising as well, Elrond nods curtly and admits, “I am pleased to hear it.” He reaches out a hand before he can stop himself, and, to his surprise, Lindir steps easily back up to him. This time, Elrond simply wraps his arms around Lindir’s back. He guides Lindir towards the door, and Lindir follows as always.

Just after Elrond’s opened it, Lindir pauses, then lets out another sharp laugh. His face comes alive, and he chuckles merrily, “Ah, elf- _fun_! I see now what you meant—it was a play on words.” Glancing carefully at Elrond, Lindir bites his lip and adds, “I apologize, my lord, but... that was a terrible joke.”

Elrond couldn’t agree more. But he’s still pleased with himself, and he leans forward on a whim, pressing a chaste kiss to Lindir’s forehead. In all the years Elrond’s known him, Lindir’s never looked so radiantly _happy_. They sweep into the hallway, Lindir’s report far brighter than before.


End file.
